


A Season of Recovery

by brutti_ma_buoni



Category: CW Network RPF
Genre: Closeted Character, Injury, M/M, alternative universe - hockey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-02
Updated: 2015-05-02
Packaged: 2018-03-26 19:38:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3862246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brutti_ma_buoni/pseuds/brutti_ma_buoni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared's season has come to an abrupt end due to injury. At home, hurt, sore, lonely and bored, he's not in the best of places. And then his career really goes to shit... Meeting Jensen, the guy he left behind, seems like it's making life harder. But at least Jared can use this time to put some things right for Jensen. If only Jensen would let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **Warnings** Brief mention of suicidal thoughts; mentions of past Jared/OFCs, /OMCs, which don’t respect them as individuals, and an unvoiced assumption of past Jensen/OMC too. Background ableist and homophobic language; references to violence against women  
>  **A/N** The title is a quote stolen from Paul Theroux. I took charity tips for therapeutic gardens from Gardening Leave here: <http://www.gardeningleave.org/index.php/gardens/media-pack/> and also Thrive <http://www.thrive.org.uk/>. I've stolen various personal life incidents, and injuries, from a number of real-life Chicago Blackhawks hockey players. The truth or otherwise of those incidents within the story doesn’t reflect at all on the real world. The Barons in this story are a fictional continuation of the former NHL Cleveland Barons franchise.  
>  **Prompt** For this one, for [](http://spn-meanttobe.livejournal.com/profile)[**spn_meanttobe**](http://spn-meanttobe.livejournal.com/): Truman "Tru" Jelinek's life is pretty much off the rails. With his professional hockey career on thin ice, and his personal life falling apart, he's ready to implement some serious changes. Helping Jenny Martin - the only girl he's ever loved - make her dreams a reality is a good place to start. There's just one problem: Jenny doesn't want his help. She barely wants to speak to him. But Tru is prepared to negotiate a deal that even Jenny can't refuse. As trading favors turns into sharing passion, he has to face the truth that when it comes to Jenny, the game is far from over.

"Fuck." Jared watches his right-hand crutch fall out of the minimart door, as he clutches at the collapsing paper sack, which is refusing to co-operate with the needs of someone who needs both hands to walk right now.

"Hey, I'll get that," says a voice, which Jared might say was familiar if he had any brain free from trying to find a way to stop milk, broccoli and lemons from cascading out of the bag while not dropping his remaining crutch or any of his limited remaining dignity. Which he does not have. "Here." The dropped crutch materialises by Jared's right fingers, and competent hands take away the rebellious shopping, righting it into a neat, non-collapsing, package. "You need any help getting to your vehi-" A pause. "Oh, shit."

Now, Jared's pretty used to getting recognised. He's been the face of a franchise for a couple years, since the Barons traded Beattie and needed someone to fill his skates. And having come back to within twenty miles of his hometown, JT Padalecki: Springfield, PA's favourite son, has to expect to have a little more visibility. But something in that voice says, nope, this isn’t hockey-hero-worship. Nope, this also isn't generic neighbourly concern at a fellow human in distress.

This voice _knows_ Jared. What’s worse, Jared knows the voice.

"Hello, Jensen," he says. He tries to make it warm. Light, friendly, howya doin' warm. Hey, remember high school warm? Remember college? Remember how I left you flat and ran off to join the big leagues? How's that workin' out for ya? Ignore the plunge of his stomach, the memories of exactly how that leaving went. How many years between of non-communication. Regret, even. When he once dared to remember, there was definitely regret. He hasn’t dared in a while.

"Hello, Jared," comes the response. The operative word here is _cold_. Icicle cold. Freezing cold. Jared's balls draw up protectively against the icy blast, and that's not just on account of, you know, February. So, Jensen hasn't forgotten, then.

But Jensen's still basically a good person, Jared discovers. It's not a surprise; he was always the better man. So he walks Jared to Jared's Hummer, carrying the rogue shopping and keeping an eye out for icy patches. He also, obviously, rolls his eyes at the car, because Jensen is probably still much closer to the Prius end of the vehicular spectrum.

And then, because Jensen always was an interfering do-gooding dick, he says, "Wait, you _drove yourself_? Because there's no fuckin' way you should be driving with that knee-"

"You know about my knee?" Jared shouldn't be surprised. Blowing out his knee was extremely public. No 'unspecified lower body injury' opportunities on this one. And also, his cast is pretty damn obvious. "It's way better." Which is true. He isn't kept up nights sweating out the gap between painkiller times. He hasn't screamed from the pressure of a blanket on his leg in at least a month. But yeah, technically, he's very much on the not-driving list, still. "And I'm going nuts at home." This is absolutely 100% true.

"I'm not blind, Jay," says Jensen, slipping with the nickname, and looking pissed at himself. "Also, remember when PT was my dream job? I haven't forgotten basic Bio, you moron." He pauses, slinging the shopping sack into the trunk in the meantime. "Gimme the keys."

"What?"

"Gimme the keys. Friends don't let friends drive drunk. Exes don't let exes drive hurt, fuck up their knees even more than they already are, and kill their careers once and for all for being too _fucking dumb to know when to quit_." He stops, abruptly. Jared gapes at him. "Give. Me. The. Fucking. Keys," Jensen repeats, and Jared simply does.

(You would never think he's faced down the NHL's toughest on a nightly basis for seven years. But he's always been a sucker for Jensen's anger.)

"At your parents'?" Jensen asks.

"Nope." Jared assumes, rightly, that Jensen will work out that means he's at his own place. His own huge, empty, secure mansion on the edge of town. (Hey, it seemed like a good purchase at the time. At the time he was twenty-one, and with his first real contract, reeling with the fame and the cash. He’s barely spent six months total there since, but he knows it’s on the Springfield version of a tourist trail.)

Jensen drives along the freeway, silently for the most part. Until, "I thought this place was empty." So there's a little curiosity there. Jared wonders whether to give up to it. This Jensen, the angry distant man, he can just deal with. Making friends with Jensen would be insane, after what happened. But Jared's bored, and lonely, and it's _Jensen_ , and it's all too familiar.

"Mostly," Jared answers, in the end. "I bought it, didn't really furnish it. Guess that's a local joke, huh?" Jensen nods, a quick tilt of the head that brings a sting of nostalgia. "But there's a kitchen, gym, bed, TV, sound system. Not a lot more. But it's not like I'm doing shit around the place. Just waiting."

"You really fucked up that patella, yeah?" Figures. For Jensen, talking about bones is a comfort zone. Jared answers with more technical detail than he'd usually bother with. Jensen sucks his teeth a couple times. "Fuck," he says in the end. "Season-ending, huh?"

"Yep." Jared can't get out any more than that. Career-ending seemed likely, at first. Now… maybe not. But still, maybe, if he doesn’t work on it with everything he has, and if he’s not lucky. Over which he has no control, which burns.

"Sucks to be you. You musta been hoping this would be your fix-it season." There's a note in Jensen's voice that isn’t kind. But then, few people are kind about Jared's fuck ups lately. What's cute and dumb and bearable when you're nineteen and a hot prospect is unbearable when you're twenty-seven and already look like you'll never get your hands on Lord Stanley. Face of the franchise or not.

"Yep," Jared repeats. And fuck you too, he says, internally. A ride home and a rescue from minor domestic bullshit isn't worth this. He's had the lecture too often, from too many sources.

Luckily, they're pretty much at Jared's place now, so the steaming silence fills the car for only a few minutes more.

Jensen hauls the shopping in for Jared and stows it in the kitchen, which is still kind, fuck him sideways once more. He's about to walk out, when Jared says, "Hey, how're you getting back?" Duh.

"Was gonna call a cab," says Jensen, easily. Like there's anywhere to wait but inside, or outdoors in twenty-five degree blah and sleety slush.

"You wait in here," says Jared, and dials. "Here in twenty," he reports, after a little. "And I'm paying."

Jensen scowls, slightly, the ungrateful fuck. "No need."

"What, because you can afford it better than me?" Jensen is – or was, last time Jared's mom ambushed him with conversation about his ex – director of a local gardening charity that works with people with mental health issues. Which is great ( _adorable_ , Jared had thought at the time), but not, yanno, NHL million-dollar-contract great.

Jensen's opening his mouth to object, and Jared says, "Take the money and give it to Ground State, if you want. But I'm gonna say thank you somehow. This was kind of you." Charity and kindness. Stuff that Jensen loves. Jared watches him cave.

"It's no big," is what Jensen says, but he stops objecting. "You heard about our work, then?"

"Mom," is all Jared can think to do by way of explanation. "She talks."

There's a very little grin that passes across Jensen's face. He knows Anna Padalecki of old, and yeah, she really talks. It's too much like old times, just for a second. Jared's belly twinges again, dammit. He's supposed to be past all this.

"But tell me about it," Jared adds. They still have about seventeen minutes of awkward conversation left, and he guesses talk about Jensen's work will pass it more readily than most.

He's right. Thirteen minutes pass easily, as Jensen describes the projects, the people he works with – everyone from stressed execs and broken families who just need some peace to people with major depression, suicide attempts in the past. But, "They get it, Jay. There's nothing like the earth to keep it real. Green shoots of hope, and all that. It works. It's awesome when it works." And yet, it hardly needs to be said, there's never enough time or money, and he worries about the people they can't reach yet.

Jared says, impulsively, "I should help. A fundraiser, maybe?" It's a bad idea, maybe, but-

Jensen's look freezes him right back to their first words earlier in the day. It's not a friendly tone, at all. "That won't be necessary. We're doing fine alone. And we'll keep on doing fine." He pauses, and says with obvious relief, "Cab's here."

With the state of Jared's knee, he can't run after Jensen when he simply walks out. He sits in his shiny, impossibly-underused, overstyled kitchen, and wonders what the fuck just happened.

Mostly, he wonders what the fuck he was thinking, to slip like that. Staying away from Jensen, right? Staying away. It's for the best. Avoiding Jensen's chill is one part of that. Not warming up Jared's old broken heart is a much bigger one.

*

"Kenny, are you saying-" Jared looks at the receiver in disbelief. This isn't happening. He was thinking it would maybe mean a pay cut, on account of age, knee-fuckery and his less than pristine media profile. But-

His agent's sigh is weary. "I'm not saying they won't make you an offer, Jared. But I wouldn't count on it being one you want to accept."

There's a very cold lump somewhere in Jared's midriff. He's played for the Barons since he was twenty. Never wanted to be elsewhere. He has friends. He's the _face of the franchise_.

Kenny adds, "Uh, I tried a few feelers out to other GMs. If you're gonna be UFA, you'll want to make the most of it. But-"

" _But_?" Jesus. That cold lump is growing.

"You're kind of… toxic?" Kenny says. "I mean, you know and I know that it's way overblown, but with all this shit about getting hockey clean, they're saying you're a dirty player with a dirty personal life-"

"That girl was _lying_ ," Jared shouts. It's true. He doesn't know how she got bruised up, but it wasn't him. Just, uh, someone in the group he was with. Which doesn't sound so good. Though he doesn't hang with those guys now. Not just for PR. That shit was all kinds of wrong.

"Yeah. They all were," Kenny says, loyally. Which sounds worse, though it’s truer. Three girls who have told all about Jared's sexual prowess were lying, and he didn't fuck even one of them. The coke rumours are 100% bullshit and he's sued two magazines successfully to prove it. The very public drunken tear after they missed the playoffs by one point on the last game of regular season… well. That part's definitely true. And okay, that was last summer, but he was snapped drinking a lot over the too-short Christmas break just six weeks back, just before he blew out his knee, and the old headlines swarmed back. This time, there's been no chance of a spectacular GWG headline to wipe them out. That's what people think of him, now. Padalecki, drunk in public, again.

Kenny goes on, "See, when you were twenty, they put up with this. But they were expecting you to, you know, settle by now. Mature. Get yourself a steady and look to the future. The way you're going, nobody sees you playing past thirty."

Jared is twenty-seven. His season is wrecked. By those guys' reckoning, whoever they are, he has three seasons left in the NHL. Max.

Hockey is his _life_. But apparently hockey doesn't want him any more.

Just like Jensen.

*

It's a week since Jared saw Jensen. He is _not_ expecting to hear his security system buzz, nor to have it be Jensen, at his gates, offering to take him for a ride to the store.

"I thought you might be thinking of driving again. Like a moron," says Jensen. Still a good, good person, Jared notes, although also an ass.

Jared has, in fact, not been an ass, and has set up an online grocery order. But whatever. It's been four very bad alone days since his call with Kenny. He can't work out much, just some arm work and the mandated therapy, which sucks. He can feel his leg and glute strength fading, which will mean a summer of pain working to get back to strength. TV and Mario Kart and porn are just not getting it done. He may be avoiding his folks, because facing his mom right now… no.

"Sure," he says, and hobbles to the door. "Gimme a sec?" He's not dressed for outdoors. Or company, at all, really. He's pretty sure these sweats reek. Judging by Jensen's expression, it's a safe bet.

It takes more than a second, because Jared has all the grace right now of an elephant struggling into a wetsuit. Knees matter, dammit. But Jensen doesn't look impatient when he finally makes it back to his guest. "Sorry. Should have called ahead, I guess."

"I- I wasn't expecting you to come back ever," says Jared. He wants to let it lie, but- "You seemed pissed, when you left."

"Nah." Jensen rubs the back of his neck, and gestures for Jared to start the slow march to his car. "Not pissed. Just- I didn't want to take anything from you. It's better that way." Which explains nothing, really, except that Jensen doesn't want Jared around, which is evident enough already. "But I thought you must've been at the store because you aren't with your folks, and nobody's looking after you-"

"So this is strictly one-way help?" Jared says, and wishes he hadn't. Logic is on his side, but emotion very much not so. Jensen gives him a shitty look, and stomps round to the driver's side without saying a word more. The trip to the store is silent too, which at least gives Jared time to work out what he can buy that isn't a total waste considering his well-stocked kitchen. Canned goods. Green leaves. Beer.

Jensen side-eyes the beer. "Is that a good-"

"I'm not a drunk," says Jared, hearing the irritation in his voice. "Just beer. Just now and again, when I'm bored shitless, or just want to get loose a little. Beer's tasty."

"Whatever." Jensen lets it drop.

It isn't till the journey back home that Jared gets over himself enough to ask something awkward in return. He figures Jensen can only drop him at his place if he doesn't want to talk, and he'll lose nothing. "So, why _not_ let me help out your work?" He waits a beat and adds, "I know I'm not the most clean-living hockey player ever, but I can raise money round here, no problems. I’m not doing anything else worthwhile with my life right now." He kind of chokes on that, the admission that his rep might mean charities wouldn't want him on board, but if that's it, he wants to face it head-on.

"No," says Jensen. "I just think it's best if I don't rely on you ever again. Learned _that_ lesson, in the end."

Well. That burns.

*

Jared's spent enough time moping, though. Yeah, his knee is bust, which a) hurts and b) sucks. Yeah, his career is possibly fucked. Yeah, Jensen hates him- Or, maybe not, it's hard to tell. Jensen helped him, more than once, but he won't take anything back. And there aren't many moments that remind Jared of just why Jensen's the guy that he never quite forgot.

 _Never "quite", Jay? Hah_ , says an inner voice. It's the inner voice who witnessed all those nights the first year, two years, fuck, four years or more really, that Jared stayed awake staring at the ceiling, listening to his roomie's breath or the rustle of puck bunnies headed home, and asked himself if it was really worth this?

Some interviewer once asked Jared if the NHL's relentless togetherness got to be too much, and all Jared could think to say was, "You'd be amazed how alone you can be, in this game."

For example, you could be closeted, even from your team. You could fuck willing girls, inadequately, every few months, as selfish cover, and try to never let any of them get expectations about making it more than a few weeks of fun. You could fuck willing guys, anonymously, in bathrooms and motels, off-season, and praying that this one wouldn't be the one that broke you.

You could remember when you were honest, and you had someone, and you walked out on him to play hockey. And then you realised, in the end, that being a second round draft pick and a youngish rookie in a failing team was tough. And you didn't get the fairytale, the turnaround of a whole franchise's fortunes, and you mostly didn't make the playoffs, and weren't quite a joke, but only because the Oilers were there ahead of you.

And you could lie awake, some nights, wondering whether the life was worth losing Jensen. And, later on, maybe wondering whether life was worth it at all.

You could be not an idiot about this, and get help, but you might find that therapy was slow, and painful, and liquor was adequate, and quicker, if more public.

And then some dumbass fourth-liner could lose an edge and blow out your knee, and it could turn out that your coping mechanisms have fucked up your life more than you noticed. And you could come home to rot or maybe to heal, and find that the one that got away is still there, and still pretty much who you dreamed of, and has never forgiven you.

So, yeah. Over the years, Jared's found out about lonely. It's probably time to start healing.

*

He's had a twitter forever, but he barely uses it. Barons publicity have the login and they use it sometimes to highlight competitions and the occasional 'game reaction from JPad' that doesn’t fool anyone who’s ever heard Jared talk. He's seen how some of the teams use their official voices, though, and a few players who seem to know how to work it. It's also the only opportunity Jared has right now to communicate with the public. If he's going to start repairing his reputation in the game, it's something he's going to face up to.  
  
_Bored_ , is his first actual, personal tweet. It gets re-tweeted a couple of hundred times. Okay. Somebody's watching. Most of what he gets back is abuse ( _Sitting on your fat ass spending ur fat paypacket_ is the nearest he gets to a smile; _Drunk tweet?_ the most consistent).

 _Still bored_ , he adds, a few hours later. Ty responds, which gives Jared the first real team interaction he's had in a month. (He's not captain, okay? Never was that sort of guy. He's allowed to go dark when he's out of it for half a year.)

It kills that evening and the part of the next day that isn’t endless, painful PT. It's not _bad_ \- Jared can see how Rickart and Ty piss away hours on twitter – but it's also very not good. Raw interaction with fans, and people who vaguely know Jared's name is… eye opening. He wouldn't want to sign himself, if he was the guy these people recognise. The fifth time someone sends him a picture of a beat up woman and a bunch of thumbs up emojis, he logs out and spends some time staring at the fucking wall, breathing hard.

(He doesn't respond. Lawyers would kill him for responding. And there's no way a response from him doesn't sound self-serving. He was there. A girl got beat. He didn't stop it. 'I didn't know, till after, and I'm not his friend now' is a shitty argument. He just blocks them.)

But the point was to do a good thing. He logs back in, the day after, doesn't check his mentions, and tweets only, "My old buddy works for this great mental health charity. If you can help their work, that'd be awesome." Just that, and a link.

It gets a few retweets, nothing much, and Jared feels a little deflated. Okay, a start, but pretty half-assed. Maybe social media deity isn't in his future.

His landline rings. Nobody has the number except his folks, and- "Sandy? Hey, how's it going?"

He likes the Barons PR team. They haven't played him up as a bad boy, have been helping him try to handle the shit that's come his way lately. This time, Sandy sounds oddly wary.

"No," says Jared, after a while. "You're not getting it. Jensen's an old friend. High school. College too, till I dropped out. I think Ground State's doing a good thing. People get scared of talking about mental health issues, I thought-"

He waits a while longer.

"No, I'm not trying to confess anythi- also actually, what the fuck is with calling mental health issues something to confess, but leave that aside, I'm just-"

Sandy talks a whole bunch more.

"Okay," Jared says, finally. "I'll try to get a picture there. With Jensen, I guess. And my cast. So people know I'm not crazy. Again, just to mention, you really need to work on your terminology there, Sandy." He's aware this sounds a whole lot less welcoming than at the start of the conversation. But really, that's Sandy's problem.

He's not about to spend additional time staring at walls today. He calls up the cab company (thank you, Jensen, for telling him who was reliable), and heads out. It's only halfway there that he realises he should probably call ahead. But then, he doesn't have Jensen's number. So, uh. Yeah. Surprise?

*

Obviously, Jensen isn't the only person to work at Ground State. Obviously, randomers walking in off the street and demanding photographic evidence of the charity's work are not necessarily welcome. _Obviously_ , Jared is a giant dick and didn't think this through even a little bit.

Danni, who works the reception, or at least is the one who comes to answer Jared's throat-clearing, is pleasant, but visibly concerned at first. She's asked, obliquely, if he needs help. Presumably, some people don't get formally referred for yard work therapy, so much as wander in off the street. Maybe. Jared doesn't know. He knows absolutely fucking nothing about this place that Jensen didn't tell him. He didn't care till now, either, except to assume it's a good place to support.

It's possible Jared's compensatory gesture is half-assed and pointless. But apparently he has some kind of duty to convince the public that he really has a patella held together with crazy glue and nails (ish), and isn't taking six months out to get his head shrunk and to play with growing cress. Shit. He's just as bad with the ableist talk as Sandy, when he isn't trying.

"I'm here to see Jensen," he repeats, doggedly. "I can wait, if he's with…people."

Danni shrugs. "Your choice. Sit.”

There are chairs, mismatched and fugly, and deeply unergonomic, but a space for hanging out in a casual, welcoming way that makes no demands. Jared makes his way over, and is silently impressed that Danni makes no embarrassed ‘Oh no, your poor knee!’ apologies. She’s concerned about his mental state more than with him in general, and there it is. (It’s possible Jared is sick of people making his knee a big deal, even though it’s a huge fucking career-threatening deal and he should get over himself.) He sits. After a while, Danni says, “The session ends at three, but a lot of guys hang on after. Jensen’ll probably stay out there with them. But you wouldn’t be butting in. People wander through all the time.”

Security at this place sucks, Jared thinks. And then, well, maybe it’s not exactly like NHL-tight here, because it doesn’t need to be. And maybe he’s forgotten more about the real world than he thought.

He goes outside anyway, following Danni’s jerked thumb. It’s bitterly cold, and deserted. Seriously, so quiet he starts to wonder if he’s in the wrong place, or being pranked by a total stranger, which seems unlikely. And then he sees the glasshouses.

It’s possible Jared got the scale of this place all wrong in his head. He was thinking sweet little yard, a few flowers and fruit. That… probably wouldn’t work for a full-time therapeutic garden centre. So, it’s big. He can’t immediately work out the details, not being big into plant life, but there’s more than one, and one of the houses is full of flowers, but he can see people in another.

“Uh, I was hoping to find Jensen?” It sounds ridiculously needy, but a woman in three thousand layers of knitwear nods him towards a corner where Jensen is talking with a skinny kid, gender not instantly apparent. Jensen looks absorbed, focused on the kid, body language held very carefully neutral, in a way Jared remembers from shared holidays spent doing farm work. Scared animals, Jensen was always good at them. The kid moves incessantly, in small, pointless twitches. Jensen ignores them all, focusing on the face, and the voice.

After a little, he looks up, at Jared. His focus breaks, just a little, and he frowns. Jared holds up his hands, quietly. Not interrupting. Jensen switches right back to the kid, for as long as the kid needs.

Which leaves Jared just, uh, looking around. He tries not to stare at the other people. Some are likely staff and volunteers. Some are here to get their heads straight, though. Jared, whose therapy memories are of impatience and anger intermingled, wonders how specifically fucked up you have to be to end up here. Or maybe it’s just people who like dirt and living things better than talking in nylon-clad rooms to guys trained in neutral nodding.

Jared may be more than a little messed up, he is realising. Maybe the gardening idea isn't such a bad idea for him too. He vows not to mention that in front of Barons PR anytime soon.

He focuses eventually on trays full of small pots, each one being lovingly seeded and labelled, by a whole group of people. And then a stack of squash, all different kinds, stacked on a board-built table and labelled _Take One, Please!_

“What are you doing here?” comes Jensen’s voice. “I assume you’re not in need of free veggies?” He pauses, “Though, God, take some, last harvest was insane and I can’t cook another one of these fucking things. Even the shelter’s started looking at us sideways if we try to offload more.”

Jared laughs, and picks up a butternut and a couple of smaller lumpy ones he doesn’t recognise. Diet plan will be fine with these, assuming he works out how to cook them. And it seems like a peace offering, sort of, taking Jensen’s produce. Like, it’s hard to yell at a guy you’re feeding.

“I… did something that turned out to be unwise,” he says. And adds, hastily, “I meant it to be a nice thing, okay? You’ve been really helpful, when you absolutely didn’t have to, and I thought maybe I could get you some more donations, so I-“

“Tweeted our site, yeah,” says Jensen, calmly. “We noticed. Got some cash too. Tens and twenties, mostly, but it all adds up. And it helps.”

“Oh. Cool.” Jared badly wants to leave it there. Kind of a nice thing, very low key. But. “Uh, it’s possible some people took that as, uh, some kind of confession.”

“What?” Jensen has a perfect monotone.

“That I, uh, have some mental health issues, and I’m in therapy here and-“

“Jesus,” says Jensen, glaring at a small yellow squash near Jared’s elbow. Jared assumes the glare is more about him than squash. “Social media is fucked up. And people’s attitudes to mental health are even more fucked up, and why would you have to ‘confess’ anything, even if you were here for help? And why would you tweet it if you were ashamed of it? And-“ He stops, and shakes his head, still glaring at the inoffensive squash.

“Yeah,” says Jared, broadly. There’s no special logic here. Just a bunch of people reacting online in fifteen directions. Which makes people nervous. “Barons PR think it’s a problem, though. So, I thought I could maybe make it clearer. Post a few pictures of what you do here, help out. Maybe get you some more donations or profile or something?”

He’s really trying to downplay this, because he has no reason to think Jensen won’t spit in his face after how he left last time, and he needs _some_ support to create enough of a fix that PR will at least shut up and leave him be. But seriously, charities contact Jared _all the time_ begging for him to lend his face, his voice, his support. Or, anyway, they did. Mostly now it’s through the team, since Jared’s not exactly seen as role model material. But this kind of deal, with no begging needed, Jensen should be falling on his neck.

Jensen does not fall on his neck. He sighs. “You think? And it won’t be a risk for you?”

“Uh.” Really, honestly, Jared never thought about that. He’s never heard a twitch of gossip about past lovers from high school and college. He’s always assumed it’s pretty safe. “It was a long time ago.”

Jensen’s eyes close briefly. “Eight years, Jay. It’s not exactly a lifetime. And I’m out. Way out. So it maybe won’t do you any good to be hanging out with me.”

Jared takes maybe a half second before he says, “Fuck ‘em. They want me to be nuts and queer and a drunk all at once? Let ‘em. I don’t care.”

For a second, he thinks Jensen’s going to laugh. “Man, you must be a _gift_ to your PR guys.” The almost-laugh fades. “We have a lot of vulnerable people here, though. And some of them don’t want it known that they come here, even though there’s _nothing to be_ -“

“Yeah, I get it,” Jared says. “I wasn’t thinking film crew all over your support groups or whatever. But can I take a couple selfies around here, at least? And _maybe_ get Barons TV in to talk with you, some other staff, maybe me doing something, uh, gardening stuff-“ He sputters out, helplessly.

“Dude, you know shit-all about plants,” says Jensen, back to being amused. Jared will take that. It’s so much better than angry, sad, defensive or exasperated, which is what he’s had lately from Jensen. This feels like the past, when they were young and dumb and made each other laugh harder than anyone else ever could. When friends would look on with exasperation as they howled into each other’s necks at something and nothing.

Jared hasn’t had a friend like that since. Or a lover, sure, but right now it’s the _friendship_ part he misses. Maybe if he could have just a little bit of Jensen’s life, his own weird hockey world might make a little more sense.

Which is why, when Jensen says, “I’m not having you put your name to my work when you show exactly how much you don’t know every time you open your damn mouth. You come and work here a little, I’ll help you out,” Jared just says yes.


	2. Chapter 2

Six weeks into Jared Padalecki’s weird little detour into the world of therapeutic gardening, he has learned how to do a lot of shit in glasshouses which has no possible relevance to his life outside this interlude. His knee is way too fucked up still to do any heavy digging, which honestly he thinks might have helped his mental state more. He’s mostly been prepping little pots ready for family therapy groups to plant seeds, and come back and check on them weekly. And also ordering a shit-ton of products for the spring, which he may or may not have mostly paid for himself, until Danni told Jensen he was messing up the accounts that way. 

Pruning, too. Pruning – or at least overseeing pruning – is within the range of a washed-up, busted NHL star, and Jared has been a part of pruning groups pretty often. It’s the only time he’s really been working with the centre’s clients, and he’ll admit to having been nervous at the start, but it turned out easy. The centre does have qualified therapists, Jensen among them, but it also has a bunch of helpers like Jared, who enjoy getting their hands dirty in a good cause, and no one expects Jared to come up with brilliant insights into dealing with tragedy, anxiety or trauma. 

He tries pretty hard not to ask, actually. Why someone ended up here isn’t anyone’s business but theirs. But it’s not hard to tell a lot of the time. There are divorcing families, and bereaved families, and you wouldn’t think it was possible for them to have such distinct styles in potting bulbs, but seriously, he can tell a mile off which it is. There are guys with angry bulging forehead veins and women with painfully-twisting hands and a bunch of people of both genders who pop pills along with their coffee breaks, on a strict schedule. 

There are also people who won’t look Jared in the eye, or come near him. He asked Jensen, once, if he should avoid them. Jensen shook his head. “I’ll tell you, if there’s someone with a real issue with big guys. Some people have flashbacks, or whatever, and some days it’s best to give them a lot of space. But mostly, Jay, they’d be scared of you if you were five nothing and eighty pounds. It’s people, not you.” 

After that, Jared tries to talk more, not less, and stop hiding. He started out thinking the centre was all about the plants, but he’s learning all the time that the rhythm of gardening is just the steady background to people finding ways to tolerate being with people. Once upon a time, Jared used to be good with people. He still is, in parts, with reporters and rookies and overcome fans having the experience of a lifetime. It’s the rest of humanity, who want a piece of Jared, that’s gotten tougher over the years. These guys, who mostly don’t give a fuck about hockey, are easy to get along with. 

He brings cookies, and hazelnut syrup for the coffee, and a recipe for squash stew that his mom used to make and some people seem semi-enthused by (it’s late March now and the squash pile is much smaller. But still, you know, inexorable). His best day is when the Dearne family are headed toward some kind of trowel duel and he manages to make big, aggressive Mickey laugh at the right moment, so they leave in a half-decent mood in their two separate vehicles, and don’t have the rigid, agonised look they usually quit the centre with. Danni gives Jared a nod for that one, a real, approving, _Yep. You did good_. 

Publicity? There’s been some. Jared’s twitter has lain pretty much fallow, but he posted a couple of pictures, getting his hands dirty mostly, and one of Jensen and Danni sweating over spreading a pile of freshly-rotted manure. Barons TV did make a feature, too, which hasn’t gone out yet, but he thinks will be okay. Teena, the centre’s once-a-week accountant, tells him the donations link he tweets regularly keeps on giving. It’s not exactly what Jared originally had in mind – he’d maybe pictured millions pouring in and a dazzled Jensen admitting Jared’s still a worthwhile human while Jared’s offered a multi-year multi-million contract that’ll see out his good years in style. But it’s something. 

Jared actually feels better. 

Then Kenny calls again. 

*

“So, I’d be prepared,” are the first words he says. Which are not good words. He follows up with, “I think the Sabres might take you on a three-year. Or just maybe the Yotes. But-“

“What.” Jared’s been mentally practising this one since Jensen pulled it on him. He gets it nearly deadpan, to cover what’s going on inside. He doesn’t want to move to Buffalo. Or fucking Arizona. He doesn’t want to play for bottom-of-the-league no-hopers. He’d seriously prefer the fucking Jackets.

“Seems like your reputation really says, uh, troublemaker. I think those may be your only options. If you go to free agency, uh,” Kenny pauses. “I could negotiate,” he continues. “You’d have to take a salary cut, but we could probably get you on short term at Edmonton or-“

Jared hangs up. Seriously, he’s _that_ level of toxic? Considering all the other shit that’s gone down, all the players arrested and cautioned and photographed in compromising positions and whatever, how come he’s especially singled out?

He calls the Barons office, and demands to speak to Sayers. They try to deny he’s around, but there’s a fucking home game tonight and Sayers isn’t the type to miss out. Jared holds on. 

It’s a painful conversation. And it ends with Sayers saying, “Look. We liked your hockey enough to tolerate a lot. But that knee maybe won’t come right. And you’re a big risk, with your drinking and all.”

“I’m not an alcoholic.” Jared hasn’t really drunk since he’s been working at Ground State. It hasn’t been a big temptation. He’s pretty confident about this. 

“No, but you suck a lot of dick when you’re wasted,” says Sayers. “And I’m kind of tired of clearing up after you.” He hangs up.

Jared takes a long time before he realises he doesn’t have to hold on to his phone any more. That… was unexpected.

The good thing about not having drunk much in six weeks? Jared still has a lot of beer in his fridge, and his tolerance has dropped enough that four cans in he’s starting to relax a little. But he drinks the rest on principle. 

*

There is a loud knocking on the door. But Jared's not in a hotel. He's not late for breakfast, for practice, for a flight… Who the hell is knocking? And why does he feel like seven sorts of shit?

Beer, is the easier one to answer. Lots of beer. Also, he's asleep on his couch (surrounded by beer cans), and his knee is screaming at him for not having treated it with proper respect. 

He shouts at the noisy person at the door. "Gonna take a while, my leg's locked up."

"You okay?" It's Jensen, apparently. It's been eight years since he yelled at Jared through a door, but it's too familiar to be surprised. "I thought you might have fallen."

Jared makes it from couch to vertical, swearing under his breath. "Why are you even here?" he manages when his knee stops screaming.

"You're late." Jensen bawls. "Two hours late. Well, three now."

Oh. Yeah. Jared was going to help out with the school session. Damn. He enjoys the mess of a bunch of kids and a bunch of dirt. Also, all hands are welcome to cope, and he- "I let you down," is what he says when he's wrestled the front door open. "I'm sorry."

Jensen shrugs. "Not a big deal. Glad you're okay." He pauses. "Uh, _are_ you okay?" Jared doesn't know how he looks, but apparently it's not good. 

He shrugs. "Yeah. I guess. Career's over. But I'm alive. You want a permanent volunteer?"

Jensen says, very carefully, "I think you need a shower and a change of clothes. You need help with any of that?"

"You listening to me?" There's a note in Jared's voice that is piteous, and he hates it. "You hear what I said? You pleased? I left you for hockey, and now you win-"

"I think you drank yourself stupid, Jay, and you reek," is all the comeback he gets. But Jensen's shoulder is under his, supporting. "Please tell me you can strip yourself and get clean, because I'm not exactly keen to help. But I'll be here when you finish, okay?"

In the shower, even with the awkwardness of waterproofing round his incisions, Jared starts to feel both better and dumber. His stomach is rolling, messy with emotion, hangover and embarrassment. Now is a time which would be better spent alone. But he blew through that opportunity, right? Demanding Jensen's attention like a brat. 

He makes it into sweats and a soft, consoling, ancient tee, and limps into the kitchen, avoiding crutches. His knee complains at him, but that doesn't matter anymore.

Jensen's sitting with a mug of coffee, flicking through a heap of mail and apparently sorting bills from junk from begging letters. Amazing. He used to organise Jared's life in small ways, way back. Just like this, with the paperwork. On the other hand, Jensen's not rushing to get coffee for the injured guy, and he doesn't immediately start talking. Just waits. 

Eventually, it's Jared who breaks the comfortable quiet. "Sorry. About this morning. There's no reason why you'd care, but I had some bad news last night, and I dealt with it-"

"Badly. I can see that. Come and sit," says Jensen, heading for the main room. "You were a mess, and I hate to see that. So, you're going to talk with me, and if I can help, I will."

"You don't have to-"

"Yeah. I do. It's my job, it's me- And anyway, Jay, you've been great these past weeks. Call me crazy, I want to give something back." Great. Jared always wanted Jensen's charity. 

*

They're on the couch. Jared picks at the knee of his sweats. (Not the bad knee, the left one, where he always used to pick at his pants when he was a kid. It still works, as a shitty avoidant move.)

"Okay. So, you don't have to tell me. But I'd be no kind of friend if I didn't suggest that talking would be better for you than drinking yourself stupid." Jensen was always good with people. But now, of course, this is his _job_. Jared sort of hates being treated that way. Hates the careful use of ‘friend’ there, too. And yet, Jensen's 100% right. So.

"So, I'm gay," he says, and the sky doesn't fall in. But then, Jensen already knew that, and Jared already knew it. It's the rest of the world that has issues. 

"I wondered," says Jensen. "I mean, bi is a thing. Saw the pictures of you with the girlfriends. Thought you might-"

"No. No, that's not me." 

"Well, damn," says Jensen. "That would have been easier on you, maybe? If you're gonna live a lie, make it a half one?" 

"Still a lie." Jared hears the dead calm in his voice. "Still a lie, and I'd still have ended up getting blown in one bar bathroom too many, and apparently that's all over the NHL now, and nobody wants me anymore. Not because of my numbers. Not because of my knee. Not even mostly because of the rep. Just- Fuck, Jen. I wanted it so bad, but they don't want me."

"Fuck 'em," says Jensen, surprisingly nonchalant. He's holding his near-empty coffee mug at a rakish angle, and he looks untroubled. He looks _amazing_ , actually. Warm and sure, and everything Jared isn’t. 

Jared remembers, reluctantly, Jensen's frozen calm, teary-eyed but clear, the day Jared told him he was entering the draft, for sure. Taking that last chance, dropping out of college if he got picked, which he would, probably, said the scouts. And told him that meant they had to be done. He'd almost added "till after", hedging his bets to the last. But he'd been almost twenty, and on the top of his game, and so _sure_ it was what he wanted. Jensen… Jensen just took it. Jared's forgotten the exact words, but it was something like, "So, you made your choice. Good luck with that." Sometimes, he dreams them, and he's nearly sure it's exactly how Jensen said it.

Now, the same guy, eight years older, half as careworn, is looking at him with a half-grin. "Fuck 'em. They know who you are. They know you can play. Your numbers have been top twenty forwards, most years. That's consistency. That's hockey. Yeah, you got a rep. Yeah, there may be rumours. But if they want to win, they'll take you. And if they don't-"

"Fuck 'em." Jared toasts Jensen in lukewarm coffee, and enjoys the answering smile. 

*

He gets back to equilibrium, more or less. Ground State helps, the way it’s supposed to. Jensen gives him extra chores, including some with groups he's generally been steered away from till now. A few ex-army guys doing heavy digging, for example. They look low-key, companionable. Then Jared realises, fetching a rogue shovel, that the one named Deke is leaning against the water butt, shoulders heaving. He looks out for Jensen, catches his eye, and a tip of the chin says _Leave him_. Jensen says, later, "Don't be surprised when someone needs a moment. For some of these guys, it's the only place they go all week." Jared's still learning that. This is a space of smaller spaces, safe spaces, where a million unending, simple chores need fixing. And through the fixing, the fixers get a little fixed. On a good day.

He tweets a few more times about the centre. PR have stopped calling him. He's pretty sure they've been tipped off that he isn't a big part of the Barons' future. So Jared's more explicit.

 _Get your hands dirty, get your head straight. I needed a little of that._ A photo, of his dirty jeans, splint off, in case anyone missed that Jared's healthier but he's not back with the team. The team is just about to fail to qualify for the playoffs, admittedly, and he's always known he can't be a part of the season end, but he should be there. He usually would be there.

His head isn’t there. He wonders, vaguely, whether he has retired, right now. It would be easier, maybe. He could start to make a life. But that night he dreams of being on the ice. That moment when the puck lands on his tape, and everything lines up right, as though slow motion, to the perfect pass, the perfect goal, the perfect controlled, powerful motion. 

He wakes up, hard and aching, because fucking _hockey_ is better than most of the sex he’s ever had, and he _misses_ it, and he’s not going to lose it without at least giving it a shot. But the old ways, of agents and concealment, and nodded negotiations, and lies, have left him beyond tired with all the parts of his life that aren’t hockey. 

He grabs a coffee, finds some bread that doesn’t have noticeable blue mould, and eats a breakfast that leaves crumbs across two rooms and smears on the screen of his cellphone as he thinks, and writes, and considers who to call. And then decides, actually, he’s doing this alone.

*

There are a lot of screenshots taken of @JTPadBarons in the next few minutes. They capture this:

_I want you to know this is really me. JT Padalecki. No account hack, no social medial manager. *waves* [Twitpic/wetew434]_

_I’ve spent the past few months rehabbing a busted knee, and maybe more importantly getting my head straight._

_Couldn’t have done that without great support from Ground State. Still shilling for donations to their great work, if you can spare them: t.co/353434_

_Made me realise a few things. I love hockey. It’s the greatest game in the world. It’s been good to me._

_I’m gay._

_I had 20-goal seasons last five out of seven. Barons MVP 2011-12, and 2013-14. Top for GWGs till this year._

_My knee is nearly healed enough for skate. My injury record isn’t the worst. I got years of playing in me._

_I’m about to go to UFA because of my sexuality. Likely no one’ll offer me a contract and this is the end of my career._

_I left a great guy for the NHL. I lived a lie for eight years because I believed that was how I could have hockey in my life._

_Turns out lying doesn’t work out so well._

_Anyone need a LW? Call Kenny McMenemy. I can play._

*

After that, Jared switches off his cell and goes to Ground State. 

There aren’t any groups in today, just the staff and volunteers, but there’s always stuff to do. Jared would have preferred something rough and mindless, maybe some really vicious pruning or digging out roots. What he actually gets is inventory with Danni. It’s oddly soothing after a while, counting pots and seed packets. Checking session plans against stock. Jared zones out. Listening vaguely to Talia and Jensen discussing spring planting and how they’re going to divide it among their communities so everyone gets some ownership of new green shoots (and everyone gets at least a couple plants that grow like weeds – nothing worse than your green shoot of hope and change withering or dying in the bud). There’s some dispute about onions, and a lot of laughter about the Great Potato Order which is not in Jared’s frame of reference and he doesn’t care enough to ask. He’s here, with good people. With Jensen in earshot. Fuck the rest of the world a little longer.

Hours in, and with Jared wishing inventory could go on forever, a barrier between him and the unsafe world, Danni says, “So, am I reading this totally wrong?” 

She’s rolling up netting for the summer battle against birds that want to devour the soft fruit. She’s focused on not leaving ragged edges where it’ll tangle round the tools, and she says pretty absently, “You and Jensen? I know you know him from way back. And he never stops looking at you now.”

Jared looks from her across to where Jensen is standing over an ill-disciplined stack of stakes, frowning like the power of his mind will resolve the tangle. At that moment, Jensen looks up, catches Jared’s eye, grins, and looks back at the stakes. 

It’s true, Jensen’s been a lot happier around Jared lately. Like the barrier he put up for self-protection isn’t needed any more. 

He shrugs. “Once upon a time. Yeah. But, you know, hockey.”

“Seems like you changed your mind about that,” Danni responds. He looks at her, surprised. “What? You think I don’t follow you? Burned your boats pretty good this morning.”

“Oh.” He doesn’t actually want to talk about that, yet. 

Evidently seeing that, Danni says, “Whatever. But you should tell him. If he’s the guy you left, you should definitely tell him.”

Just then, Cannie comes in from the office, looking harassed. “God, if I have to talk with one more journalist today, I’ll-“

“Shit,” says Jared, temporarily abandoning the netting pile. “Are they looking for me?”

“Looking for you, asking about you, wanting quotes, wanting interviews.” She’s a nice girl, quiet and competent, but she’s only doing a couple shifts a week to help herself through college, and he doesn’t suppose dealing with a press furore was on her personal goals for this job. 

“Sorry,” he says. “I should have warned you.”

She grins at him, “Actually, nope. It’s been easier. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I haven’t spoken with Mr Padalecki in days. If you’d like to feature our donation number, though-‘ I’m not a good liar.“ 

“Oh, man,” he says. “At least I owe you coffee. Or tea? I can do a Starbucks run. Who else wants-“

“You don’t want to go out there,” says Oscar, who arrived last of the group. “I’m guessing the photographers are still there.”

“Are you _kidding_ me?” Jared pauses to breathe. And also to think. “So… Shit, guys I’m so sorry about this. I can’t believe you didn’t tell me this crap was out there. I should go.”

“Why?” That’s Danni. “Nobody knows for sure you’re in here. You can stay a while. If you want.”

Oscar adds, “Though you want to stand us all coffee, I’ll fetch it.” He’s laughing, but it sounds like a good idea. Jared empties his wallet into Cannie’s hands. “Buy coffee. Lots. Extra everything, whatever you guys want for snacks. I’m so sorry I didn’t warn you.”

The space rings with a mix of coffee orders, thanks, and some confused staffers being brought up to speed on what the hell’s going on. Jared goes back to neatening the netting, now that Danni’s distracted. 

After a little, he hears someone approach. Of course it’s Jensen. 

“So… I didn’t know you were going to do that.”

He looks up. Jensen’s standing, awkwardly, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Jared nods at the nearby chair. Danni’s listing snack orders, and won’t be back soon. Jensen sits in the beat-up old rocker. He’s very focused on Jared, a little frown between his brows. “Yeah, sorry,” says Jared, again. “I should have warned you. I did tweet the donations address again, so maybe-“

“That’s not what I meant,” says Jensen. He pauses. This isn’t ever going to be a quiet place. Too many people, too many surfaces, too much metal and wood and wire. But it feels quiet for a moment. “I ever tell you how I ended up here?”

This isn’t how Jared was expecting anything to go, but, okay. He shrugs, “Nope. I assumed you moved on from physical therapy, but-“ His Jensen, way back, was all about anatomy and healing.

“I missed you a lot,” says Jensen. “Like- I didn’t know what to do with myself after you left. I- I guess I nearly dropped out. But I got a counselling referral at the right time, and it helped.” 

He’s not telling it with self-pity, or like he wants Jared to feel bad. But it’s more than a little hard not to, hearing that he almost wrecked someone’s life. Especially Jensen. “I’m sorr-“

“Nope,” says Jensen, leaning in to Jared. “It was perfect. PT wasn’t working out for me, but I always loved helping people. My life took a turn, and it was right for me. You’ve seen this place is good. I feel like we’re really making a difference. I’m happy.”

His hand lands on Jared’s arm, stilling any pretence that busywork is still ongoing. “I guess it’s pretty trite, but just- I know you must feel awful today, but your life will take a turn, and-“

“I don’t,” Jared says. “I don’t really want to go out there,” because he hates interviews at the best of times, and talking personal shit more than anything. “But I feel pretty good. Hey, if I’m really retiring, you think I could help out here for a few months till I work out what happens next?”

Jensen blinks at him, confused. “I thought- Sorry. I was expecting you’d be a little broken up. But if you’re not, that’s- That’s great, Jay.”

Jared tastes that thought. Testing. “Okay. I still want to play hockey. I should have five years, maybe a little more, and if I lose them, that’ll hurt. But- I guess it’s not the only important thing.”

Jensen smiles, and Jared’s heart misses a beat. God, it’s like being nineteen again, and in love. Jensen’s still the best. 

They’re staring, unspeaking, when the coffee run gets back. Jared avoids Danni’s eyes. 

This place, which usually feels a little removed from the world, yet full of its problems, is today Jared’s bubble of sanctuary. At five, when all the volunteers are gone, the main phone line closed, and the spring-growing plants almost audible in the sudden real quiet, Jared looks toward the door to the outside world. “I guess I’d better-“

He doesn’t want to go out there. Cannie reported media still hanging around at four, and if they’re bothering to doorstep this charity on the offchance, they’ll definitely be at his house. He’ll face them sometime, but he really wants a night to mull. Talk to his parents. Check in with Kenny. See whether any offers are even vaguely possible, or whether tomorrow is the first day of his post-hockey life. He doesn’t want to switch on his cellphone in here, in his sanctuary, but it’s time.

“Hey, do any of you know a decent hotel near here? Somewhere that maybe won’t sell me out to the media right away? I think I need a night to myself.” 

Jensen and Danni exchange shrugs. It’s not unexpected. This isn’t really a tourist town. Danni eyeballs Jensen hard. “Uh, I have a spare room,” Jensen blurts. “We could… we could hide you in my car and get you away from here, get you some privacy for today. If you like?”

Which is how Jared Padalecki, lately the face of the Cleveland Barons, is smuggled out of a therapeutic gardening charity offices in a five year old midrange sedan, under a pile of blankets that smell like old dog and earth. He laughs almost the whole way. Seriously, what is his life?

*

Jensen’s place is okay. Small, not exactly beautiful. Jensen’s neat, but he never was much for design. There are plants, but they have a distinct look of specimens-in-need-of-tending rather than beauteous-houseplants. Which, Jared feels like he needs tending too, today. He gives them a glance of fellow-feeling. 

Then, breathing deeply, he turns on his cell.

He’s vaguely aware of Jensen moving around the house. Opening cupboards. Chopping something. “You want to eat here?” comes a question, and Jared says, “Yeah,” absently. A few minutes later he registers that he probably shouldn’t have found that so automatic, so natural. But, Jensen. 

There’s good news, and of course, bad. Messages from fans and teammates and even minor celebrities, supportive, and angry on his behalf. A bunch of abuse, mostly on Twitter, which is easily ignored. Voicemail from Barons PR, demanding he call. From Sayers saying, “We’ve consulted our legal people about your actionable statement regarding our reasons for letting you go. We hope that we can resolve this without legal action, but we admit no wrongdoing in this matter.” Stuff from his parents, who have supported him living a lie and now mostly support him not, though they’d really have preferred a heads up ahead of time, which is fair. His dad sounds pretty pissed. 

And a message from Kenny saying, “Flyers and Leafs enquired about your medical status. Ducks want you to skate with them at a thing – I think that’s just YCP stuff, but if you do it, there could maybe be something there? You’re maybe not finished yet, Jare. Though if you pull a stunt like this again without warning me, you’ll be looking for alternative representation.”

 _Maybe not finished yet._ Wow. It shouldn’t be taken as anything more than a cautious first step, but it feels good.

Jensen hollers, “Food!” He used to do that when they were eighteen, on the rare days one of them assembled something instead of getting takeout.

It makes Jared smile. So does dinner, pasta and tomatoes and inevitably more fucking squash, thrown together but tasty enough. “Thank you,” he remembers to say, now. “You really didn’t have to do this.”

Jensen shrugs. “Maybe I wanted to. You did a big thing today. How’s the knee?”

“I haven’t even thought about it today,” says Jared, honestly, and now he does, it feels nothing but a little stiff. Good. He doesn’t have time to be injured. “Better, I guess. Need to work on it tomorrow, I know.” 

“How’s-“ Jensen pauses, “Everything? Out there?”

“Lot of noise,” Jared says. “Mixed responses. I guess that’s what I expected.” He doesn’t want tonight to be about that. Turns the conversation to why Jensen’s car smells like dog. (His parents, a couple of rescue dogs, Jensen’s considering getting one too but some of his clients don’t get on so well with animals and he doesn’t want to leave one at home all day.) It’s enough to get them talking, and talking. They move from kitchen to couch eventually, still talking. When Jared checks his watch, it’s past eleven.

“Wow. Sorry, did you have stuff to do tonight?” 

“Nope,” says Jensen, cracking his neck. “Pickup games Wednesday and Sunday. Didn’t feel like the gym. And it’s not like I’m seeing anyone right now. Gets lonely.” He holds Jared’s gaze.

God. Jensen was always incredibly unsubtle with this stuff. Jared’s spent years looking for small tells, discreet signs that he’s not off base. This is not that. 

“I thought you were avoiding me because I’m the asshole who broke your heart and left you for a stupid game,” he says. Because yes, please, let there be sex, but he wants to know what this is.

Jensen shrugs. “Yeah, but you’re still you. I always wanted you. And…” There’s a flicker of less certainty, now, “Seems like you have new priorities, maybe?”

Which is nobody’s idea of a romantic commitment. But takes them past a one-nighter of gratitude, he hopes. 

It’s easy. So easy, in fact, that Jared freaks out a little halfway through, and bumps his forehead against Jensen’s. “How- How are we still the same? It’s been so long-“

“Still you and me,” Jensen breathes back, rolling his hips slowly, a mix of comfort and pleasure. “This wasn’t ever the problem.” He pauses. “Though if you don’t _move_ soon, it could be.” Jared snickers a laugh, mouth sliding down to lick at Jensen’s neck, and he picks up the pace again. 

It’s not exactly the same. Bodies are different. Pasts went in different ways, and they’ve learned from other lovers. But this feeling of him and Jensen, together and right. He hasn’t forgotten that.

He doesn’t want to go without it again.

*

It’s past five am and Jared’s awake. So is Jensen, always an early bird. Jared listens to him breathing, wondering who will break the silence. 

It should be him. He draws in a breath that turns ragged, betrayingly. 

“Sooo,” and then isn’t sure what happens next.

“So you got offers. Any good ones?” Jensen asks. The words are right, very calm, interested. The tone is stretched like taut wire. Defending Jensen, already, against a pain he has every reason to expect.

“Maybe. I need to hear details. But a couple teams at least seem like they want to make a statement. Maybe that’s good enough.” He pauses. It would be a risk to say it, because this could just be Jensen being Jensenly nice. The tension in his voice, though, that gives Jared hope.

“But I don’t want to leave you for hockey. Not again,” he says. 

Jensen’s breath rushes out like a gust. “You can’t stay for me,” he says, too fast, like he has to get it out before he talks himself out of saying it. “You’d hate me for holding you back. You know it. It’s why you were right to go before.”

“I can pick a team for you, though,” says Jared. “Something near enough I could see you sometimes. Not hide you away, or only drop by in the off-season for a booty call. Could be the Flyers, maybe. They were interested. If you’d- Jen, it’d be a ton of attention, if we did it that way. And not all of it good, at all. My messages, they’re not all offers. But if I took one, I wouldn’t just go back to being a hockey player. I can’t. I’d want to be a person.”

Jensen’s smile expands, like sunshine in a winter-cold room. “Sounds like you need some help with that.”

Jared wants to say a lot, now. About how he always needed Jensen, even when he was a fool. About how he wouldn’t ever live only for one other person, how he needs to live for himself, but how life without Jensen still didn’t even seem this good. About thanks, for everything Jensen has done these past weeks. About sorry, for the years before. 

He does say some of it, but it’s kind of muffled, and distracted, and he’s not convinced Jensen is listening hard to all of it, what with the dick in his face and all. But falling back to drowse, after, Jared notes that Jensen’s still smiling. So, okay.

*

After breakfast, he listens to a bunch more messages. Then calls.

“Kenny? I’d like you to have some conversations for me. But here’s the deal. I have a boyfriend. I’m not gonna hide him. And I also want to live somewhere not all over the other side of the continent from him, okay? Bring me some options, and we’ll talk.”

It’s been one day. It’s been eight long years. It’s been thirteen years, since Jared Padalecki met Jensen Ackles in freshman Bio, and fell in love. 

He’s never been more certain.

**


End file.
